October childhood

There's so little to remember
of the summer
as the autumn air begins to sting
our breath and our memory,

My stomach lifted
back through time
by butterflies
and I'm 9 years old,
sitting against my father,
my new hat
pulled tight over my eyes,
blue with gold trim,
stiff and proud,
we're waiting on the pretend smells
of wood, dirt and leather,
the passage of time,
these 17 years,

still-
somehow-
wind circles that
long gone coliseum
with diagonal walkways
and crumbling concrete edifice,
left to history unkind,
and memories golden,

My father plants them like a seed,
a red, powder blue, blue, magenta seed,
it's like magic
and suffering,
and happiness,
and defeat,
and childhood,
and victory
and belief restored
promises kept
through a dream
and
it's October
and it's life.